ntern which streamed on the ground, he saw that,
instead of the indignant crowd his apprehensions had imagined, only two
men were on the spot, one of them old and diminutive, and the other
encumbered with the exhumed body. In the glow of fanatic fury, he forgot
all personal fears, and while his dastard creatures held on their
terrified course, he sprang back alone to the burial-ground, and seizing
the old man with one hand, he stretched forth the other to grasp from the
Moriscoe's hold his still insensible burthen.

"Sacrilegious villains!" cried he, "give up your impious purpose, and
resign the body of the recreant lost one. Let it rot in its earthy prison,
till the last trumpet rouse it in resurged life to burn in eternal fire."

A deep and silent plunge of the Moriscoe's poignard struck the blaspheming
bigot in the throat; another blow pierced his heart, as he fell into the
imperfectly hollowed grave; and while he lay there, several strokes were
dealt on him by the feeble hands of the old man with one of the spades,
which he tremblingly seized. And then, in the instinct of terror at the
deed, he shovelled the loose earth over the bleeding carcass, while the
Moriscoe's pale profile looked stern and rigid in the expiring light. The
work was soon complete; and the mound of earth thus hastily thrown up
(soon covered with as rank weeds as ever sprang from a polluted soil) were
long marked by shuddering superstition as "the grave of the Mahommedan
girl." The fate of the inquisitor was quite unsuspected; and he might have
been still believed to have disappeared supernaturally, or perished by
some less awful visitation, had not unerring records thrown light on his
fate.

The tottering steps of the old man quickly led the way across the thickly
planted site of the little Sablon, and by many a winding lane and alley
towards the hill of Caudenburgh, till the Moriscoe, with his beloved
burthen, found a safe refuge in the old man's dwelling, in the narrow
street on the side of the hill, not a hundred yards below the house of the
Marquess of Assembourg.

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

MUSICAL LITERATURE IN NORTH AMERICA.

We have just received two numbers of a New York periodical, entitled the
"Euterpeiad, a Musical Review and Tablet of the Fine Arts," published
every fortnight, or, as our transatlantic fellow-labourers express it,
"semi-monthly," and feel flattered at findin